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Geralt was having a pleasant dream. His dreams this winter were more pleasant than he could remember having at the witchers’ keep. The nights were long at Kaer Morhen, and dark; only a few hours of sun peeked out of the southern sky, if the clouds parted long enough for it to shine. The darker and longer the nights were, the worse Geralt’s dreams became.
His body moved before he was fully awake, throwing itself into the corner to crouch like an animal. His chest heaved as he looked frantically at the dark of his room. He was drenched in sweat. The cold stone was what brought him out of his panic, cooling his torso and arms until his heart calmed and his breathing slowed. This night was particularly bad, and Geralt fell back into his training, going through breathing exercises as he slowly relaxed his body piece by piece.
It was an awful dream. One of his worst. He tried not to think about what he’d seen. I’m awake now, he told himself. I’m awake now.
Kaer Morhen in winter was perhaps the safest place in the world. The snow fell so deep that by mid November it was impossible to reach the witchers’ keep on foot. The winds howled fiercely all winter and blizzards could last for weeks. If someone were to survive the snow long enough to reach Kaer Morhen, they would find a keep defended by a small force of some of the best fighters on the entire continent.
Jaskier could not be more safe anywhere than here.
Not even illness could touch the bard here: Jaskier hadn’t had one cold since he arrived. Geralt knew he wouldn’t, not among the witchers and their immunity. It still eased something in him to see the evidence of Jaskier’s good health.
Each year, before the snows got too deep and the game too scarce, the witchers went hunting. Each year they held a competition to see who might get the biggest catch of the season.
This year Geralt had been lucky. On his third day out he caught the smell of an elk. He took the bull down quickly and built a sledge to drag it home. He left the viscera behind, the entrails steaming in the snow. Other creatures would benefit from it, and it would help to distract them while he got the carcass back to Kaer Morhen.
Now, his win likely secured, Geralt had turned his attention to ice fishing, one of the few sources of food that was available throughout the winter. He was determined to get a pike bigger than Lambert’s catch six seasons prior.
“Oh, you want a bigger pike than Lambert’s?” Jaskier said, voice cheekily seductive.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do you all pull out your pikes to compare?”
“Stop.”
“What bait do you use for pike? If I dangle a worm will your pike grow bigger for me?” His palm slid against Geralt’s crotch. Geralt tried to ignore it.
“You know nothing about pike fishing and even less about flirting.”
Jaskier waggled his eyebrows. His smile did something to Geralt, and he pressed Jaskier’s hand harder against him.
The witchers had more firewood stacked in the storeroom than they could burn in two winters. They had furs and blankets in every room and little clay stoves to efficiently heat their small bedrooms. The stoves were made in the old northern style: rustic, squat, hand-formed clay bodies with a mouth near the bottom to feed the fire. The top was flat so that one could place a pot to heat water to wash in (“and thank goodness for that,” Jaskier said, “or my bits would freeze right off”).
Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, warmth, entertainment. They wanted for nothing. The entertainment was particularly good this year, entirely due to Jaskier’s presence. He sang most nights or played quietly while the witchers talked. He was a much better sport than Vesemir about being the fourth player needed for Baśka, and was eager to gamble with them once Vesemir went to bed. He did not join them for pikwo przecikwo, the children’s game of pretend warfare that they played in the large hall: the witchers had an astonishing physical advantage and their games usually became too violent for a normal human man. But he cheered them on with gusto and having an audience made the younger witchers even more determined to outdo each other.
It was the best winter at Kaer Morhen that Geralt could remember. There was nothing missing. And so the witcher slept deeply. His nightmares were easily banished and his dreams, overall, were good ones.
His current dream was particularly pleasant. He was fucking Jaskier. Or being fucked; his dream couldn’t seem to decide. It was nebulous and hard to decipher exactly whose limbs were where. Whatever it was, it felt good.
It was a surprisingly vivid and physical sensation. Geralt had dreams like this often, where his body felt the pleasure of what happened in the dream. Sometimes he was able to orgasm from the dream alone. Jaskier had witnessed it for the first time this winter, and had become obsessed.
“You’re not telling me you’ve never had a wet dream,” Geralt said.
“Not since I left puberty behind. How often does this happen for you? Why haven’t I seen it before?”
“You don’t need to sound so suspicious. It usually only happens when I’m well-rested. Or if I haven’t gotten laid in a while.”
“Ah, I see. What does it feel like, when you have these dreams? You must tell me exactly, Geralt.”
“Really good.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier sighed.
“I dunno. I’m asleep, I don’t know what my body’s doing. I just know it feels good. What did you see me doing?”
“I couldn’t see that you were doing much of anything. You twitched here and there but you were mostly still. Do you think you’re tensing any muscles down there? That might do it.”
“How would I know? You didn’t look?”
“And risk waking you? I couldn’t move a muscle, I was so entranced with watching you. You made the most wonderful sounds.”
Geralt made a new sound in his throat.
The dream was intensifying. It almost ached, it felt so good. Geralt was dimly aware that he was asleep, and drifting towards wakefulness. He didn’t want to stop dreaming.
When he was alone during the winter these dreams could be torturous. He often woke to find himself humping the mattress or blanket, alone and horny, and he fucked his hand or the bed or even his pillow to get relief.
The witcher felt lips on his neck. That was nice. Mouths are nice; the thought floated through his dream.
Jaskier was behind him, holding him: the dream was clarifying. It was good to be held by him. Geralt breathed, trying to find Jaskier’s smell.
It was Jaskier’s scent that ultimately pulled him out of the dream.
Something was touching him. He blinked as he looked down. Someone: Jaskier had his hand around his cock. The witcher thought he could feel Jaskier’s smile against his skin, but he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the dream lingering.
“Hello, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice confirmed it: he was smiling. Geralt could hear it.
“‘Sit morning?” It was difficult to tell: the only window in Geralt’s room was shuttered and packed with wool to keep out the cold.
“Not yet. Should I have waited?” Jaskier pulled his hand down in one slow, tight stroke. “Should I not be touching your cock like this?”
“Fuck.”
“You looked like you were having a nice dream,” Jaskier whispered.
“Yeah.” Geralt tried to keep his hips still, but on Jaskier’s next agonizingly slow stroke he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting.
“Need to fuck something?”
Geralt groaned.
“Go ahead,” Jaskier said. His tongue flicked at the edge of Geralt’s jaw. “You can use my hand.”
The witcher gave in happily, rocking his hips to fuck into Jaskier’s fist. He was close already.
“Fuck,” he moaned.
Jaskier hummed sweetly. “I wish I could say I’m sorry for waking you, but I couldn’t help myself. You had an erection; how am I supposed to resist touching you?”
Geralt panted out a laugh. He had given Jaskier free rein to do whatever he liked in their bed this winter. Why not; they had time, and hardly any responsibilities. He didn’t mind at all that Jaskier was taking advantage. The nights were so long that it seemed natural to wake and fuck in the middle, when the world was quiet and dark.
“I love you,” Jaskier whispered into his ear, “my beautiful witcher. I want you to feel good. Is it good?”
Geralt whined. He wondered how long Jaskier had been touching him: he was nearing his peak. His body took over for the ecstatic build at the end when his muscles tensed and his cock hardened even more, his balls tight and full, pulled closer and closer to climax, past the point of no return, free to cede control of himself and just feel.
Two more wonderful thrusts and he was coming, and the smell of his own spend reached his nose as it landed on the sheets. He shuddered and whined again as Jaskier smoothed some of it over his length with a slick, wet, filthy sound.
“Good boy,” Jaskier whispered. Geralt moaned softly. He kept moving his hips, slower now, still fucking Jaskier’s hand. He closed his eyes. He liked this feeling after orgasm, this sensitivity. His cock stayed hard. Sometimes he was even able to orgasm a second time.
Not this time, he didn’t think. But it felt fucking great.
“What was that?”
“I said it feels fucking great.”
Jaskier chuckled. Geralt smiled as he panted: he could feel Jaskier’s laugh at his back. That felt good, too.
“I’m so glad, Geralt.” There was a sweet, affectionate tease in his voice.
“Can you keep your hand there? Just a little longer.”
“Of course. What were you dreaming about? Something nice?”
“I was dreaming about fucking you.”
“…oh?”
“Yeah. We were fucking like animals.”
“Oh…”
Geralt grinned. It was easy to rile Jaskier. On his next thrust Jaskier thrust with him. Geralt listened to Jaskier breathe as their bodies moved together.
His arousal was finally winding down, and he was beginning to soften. He could have forced himself to stay hard — it was possible — but there was no need for that. He reached down to pull Jaskier’s hand away and intertwined their fingers.
“This room is going to be absolutely disgusting by the spring,” Jaskier said. He didn’t seem to be in any great hurry to move: he was still grinding against Geralt’s ass, still panting against his neck.
“I don’t mind it.”
“That’s an understatement. You like your smells.”
“Only the good ones,” Geralt murmured. His eyelids were beginning to droop. He felt utterly content.
He tugged on their hands, pulling Jaskier as close as he could.
“Want to fuck me?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Yes. Gods, yes.”
“Then fuck me.” Geralt kissed his hand and released him. He smiled as he listened to Jaskier scrambling behind him, looking for the bottle of clove oil.
He felt hands on his body, pulling him, and he went with them until he was on his back, legs open around Jaskier’s waist.
Geralt didn’t need much preparation other than the oil that Jaskier was stroking over himself. They’d been fucking often enough that Jaskier was able to push right in. He groaned as he felt Jaskier’s cock stretching him open.
“Fuck, that’s nice,” he murmured.
Jaskier reached for his hands, intertwining their fingers again. Geralt opened his eyes just in time to see Jaskier smile, and then he was being kissed. He sighed.
“Fuck me like you mean it, Jaskier.”
Geralt laughed and arched against the pillows as Jaskier did just that.